


A Penny For Them

by TheVineSpeaketh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunken Confessions, M/M, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVineSpeaketh/pseuds/TheVineSpeaketh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tonight, though, was much like a few nights that had happened before. Tonight he was ranting, not about Scotland Yard officials and their lack of cunning, but about his blogger, his doctor. He seemed quite at odds about him, as if he was something of a mystery that could not be solved. I saw the irony in this, but I said nothing. </p><p>In which Sherlock spends a long, drunken night talking to his skull.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Penny For Them

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is inspired by one of the headcanons of 'sherlockheadcanons' on Tumblr: http://sherlockheadcanons.tumblr.com/post/61424516029/
> 
> And I cracked up laughing when I typed in 'skull' just jokingly for a character in the character tags and it actually came up with the skull from Sherlock. XD I mean, he is the narrator of this fic, after all, but I wasn't expecting him to actually be on there.
> 
> This takes place in an unspecified time, in an unspecified point of the series. I hope you enjoy it!

Some nights, he would get drunk.

Obviously, these were not nights that occurred often. He was usually busier than the task of growing intoxicated would allow, and it definitely showed. His days were usually filled with intrigue and mystery, were usually spent racing around the whole of London searching for clues or rushing to save someone, to keep another from paying the ultimate price for someone else’s wrongdoing. His nights were often spent doing the same, or perhaps undertaking some evening activities at home, like shouting at soap operas while his blogger typed religiously on his keyboard, a pleasant noise that faded instantaneously into the background as nothing more than a pleasant hum.

But there were nights, interspersed randomly and without correlation to one another, where he would plop down on the settee, and, without a blogger nearby, get absolutely and totally smashed. It was never the same drink twice, though the levels of drunkenness were almost always on par with one another. And on those nights, when he finally reached the peak of his ability to grow intoxicated, where there was nothing more that could be done to make him even less of the man he was before, he would fill up one more glass and begin to speak to me.

Some nights he rambled about recent or ongoing cases. Others, he grew angry and insisted the whole of Scotland Yard was full of ingrates. One particularly disastrous night concluded with the door barricaded and the corner filled with a wraith-like figure, huddled in an old robe and reeking of shame and desperation.

Tonight, though, was much like a few nights that had happened before. Tonight he was ranting, not about Scotland Yard officials and their lack of cunning, but about his blogger, his doctor. He seemed quite at odds about him, as if he was something of a mystery that could not be solved. I saw the irony in this, but I said nothing.

“D’you know who he’s out with?” he slurred, looking pensively at the glass in his deft fingers. I have always admired his hands, I would gladly admit. He always knew precisely what to do with them, where to put them, how to handle most things with them. He could be delicate and precise, malicious and tender, and all with the flip of a switch. “He doesn’t tell me who he’s gone out with anymore. He hasn’t told me since that one night, which he still claims was my fault. Truly, though, it couldn’t have been. It was no fault of mine that he was out on a date when we had much more important matters at hand. Honestly, that was just bad timing on his part.” He looked at his glass a bit more, turning this way and that, glancing up at me for a brief moment before turning the glass around yet again. “It isn’t as if I can control when other, more pertinent events in the world unfold. Does he think my reach that far?” Then, suddenly, he stood, still looking at the glass, which had, miraculously, not spilled, despite being balanced so precariously in his hands.

“He doesn’t need a girl anyway,” he mumbled, sniffing the liquid, a bit of it ending up on the tip of his nose. I tried not to laugh. “Nobody needs a girl. They are useful for certain things, I will admit that, and they are altogether not a terrible part of humanity. On the contrary, they are quite pleasant, from an observatory perspective. Most of them come with a plethora of little habits that are fascinating to observe. Some of them have quite pleasant smells that are good to behold, especially in a disgusting place. And their patience, it seems, is nearly endless. At least, that much is true of Mrs. Hudson, who has been nothing but the pinnacle of kindness and sensitivity.”

All throughout his rambling about women his expression had cleared itself of any malice, and he looked almost pleasantly pensive, as if he could expound all day on the various little virtues he saw in women. But at the last minute, his brow furrowed, and he tapped his finger once, twice impatiently on the side of his glass. “But that doesn’t mean we need attachments to them. We men, I mean. Truly, they are no good for us, and we, for them.” He tapped his finger again in this brief reprieve. I tried to follow his intriguing train of thought, but it flitted quite swiftly behind his eyes, and I could not see it more than but a few brief moments.

“I don’t see why so many people find homosexual relationships so troubling,” he finally blurted, his slur lost under the strength of his voice. Indeed, he looked positively perplexed, as if any reason for the cause of his confusion was beyond reasonable thought. “Given the right circumstances, I daresay they could be the solution to many of the world’s problems regarding the opposite sex from any point of view. Men in homosexual relationships could find out why they are so frustrating to women, and vice-versa. And maybe the better understanding of their own sex could result in some healthy discoveries about faults in their own person, which would then aid them into becoming better people in the future. Everyone wins. It’s that simple, don’t you think?”

Another pause. I conceded to his point, but there was a problem. Not everyone was as scientifically inclined as he was, and therefore not everyone would see this from a scientific, experimental viewpoint, as he did. Some people were genuinely disgusted by it, and others simply couldn’t feel that way, even if they tried. It wasn’t entirely a matter of people not agreeing on a subject. It was a piece of nature, something that could not be changed, not with the aid of all religion or science in the world. It was simply something to be accepted and regarded as the norm, as nature intended it to be.

“It reminds me of a song,” he mumbled to himself, “written by a few blokes who knew a lot more about things like this than I do.” Another pause. He swirled in place, then stopped. The glass still didn’t spill at all. I was envious of his obvious grace. “John could dabble in a homosexual relationship. There’s an idea! It would be simple, wouldn’t it, my friend? Because then I could prove to him that women were of no use to him.” His brow furrowed, and he appeared confused. He traced the rim of the glass with a finger. “But who would be an appropriate mate for his brief sojourn into homosexuality?”

He stared at me for a moment, as if expecting an answer. When I gave him none—because, really, I could see nobody who would suit his doctor as well as he, and I didn’t want to inflate his ego in any way—he paced a bit in thought, setting the glass down as he passed by the end table. I watched him, intrigued. He really was drunk tonight, wasn’t he? He usually didn’t get this way. He must have been terribly upset. Either that, or he was trying a new beverage. I tried to stretch a bit to read the bottle before him, but I couldn’t see it. It was clear, though, so I could only assume it was something strong, like vodka or sake. But I had never seen him with sake before. Or was it whiskey?

“Lestrade would be a poor match, despite the way he looks at John,” he said as he walked. He paused in his pacing to snarl openly into the room. “And in no way, shape, or form is Anderson an acceptable person in any way.” He took two more steps, put a hand in his hair, turned, and kept pacing again. “Mycroft? Surely not. Though, perhaps, that would be amenable if I was trying to prove the opposite of my originally intended goal to John.” He laughed to himself at the jab, and I laughed along with him. I had never actually had the pleasure of meeting Mycroft, but I knew he and Sherlock didn’t get along.

“Moriarty?” Sherlock asked, and for a moment, his voice was serious, as if he was giving it considerable thought. I gaped at him, though he didn’t catch the expression. _Are you mad?_ I asked him. _You could make several lists about how he would abuse the good doctor, and we certainly cannot have that._ Indeed, the doctor was a very good man, and I cared very much for him. The villainous Moriarty would do him no good.

“No, no,” he said suddenly, waving his hands before himself as if smudging the man’s name from the air. “Though his qualities are admirable in a certain light, it is obvious he is a most grievous individual as a whole.” I breathed a sigh of relief. “That leaves only…”

He paused, his eyes growing startlingly wide, and he looked at me. “That leaves only me.” It certainly didn’t, of course, but I didn’t tell him so. When he is drunk, it is best to let him get to his own conclusions. He grew suddenly flustered, running a hand through his hair again. “Well, I would be most obliged to show him the admirable qualities of being with someone of the same gender, of course.” He dipped his head. “More than obliged. Delighted. Honored.” He dropped to his chair again, raking his hands through his hair, resting his elbows on his knees. “I would not deserve the good doctor, that is for certain. I **do** not deserve him. Could **never** deserve him.”

My heart dropped as I watched him, realizing with a sudden clarity that everything had been drawing up to this moment, pushing up to this very second. Outside, something close to the usual London rain pattered against the windowpane. Somewhere out there John was happy and free with a lovely woman for whom he no doubt felt at least a small measure of affection, while here, in the dark, baroque comfort of the sitting room, a man who considered him the greatest friend he knew was sitting drunk in a chair, panicking at the sudden realization that—

“No, that isn’t right,” he murmured, his voice bogged by a lump in his throat, and he stood, looking around as if searching for something, some evidence to the contrary, and I knew he couldn’t find it no matter how hard he tried. “It can’t be, it can’t.”

 _Don’t fight it, Sherlock._ I said as soothingly as I could. _You know it is true, more than you want to admit._

He turned to me suddenly, striding the few steps it took for him to reach me. He pointed one finger straight at the bridge of my nose, the cartilage of which had long since worn away. “He must not know of this, do you hear me? You must promise me that this—” here he waggled his finger between us, our noses lined up perfectly—“will stay between us.”

I nodded to the best of my ability, and he seemed satisfied. He stood up, loosening his shoulders gently. “Good,” he muttered, straightening his robe and sniffling in a dignified manner. “Most excellent. Glad we’ve had this chat.” And without further ado, he collapsed, falling partially onto the settee, enough to keep himself aloft by only half his body. The rest of his limbs sprawled in a most undignified manner, but there was little I could do for that. I merely watched as his breathing nearly instantly evened out, his hair pressed to the cushion in a manner that would most definitely leave it crazily aloft in the morning. Nothing I could do for that, either.

 _The only thing I can do_ , I whispered to him, watching over him as he slept, _is wish you a good night, Sherlock. And thanks for the chat._ And with that, I turned my gaze to the door, waiting for his beloved doctor to eventually return home.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr!](http://exacteyewriting.tumblr.com)


End file.
